winding paths across the lonely heath; and to
approach London through its most open suburb
by striking into the Finchley-road, and so
getting back, in the cool of the new morning, by
the western side of the Regent's Park.

I wound my way down slowly over the Heath,
enjoying the divine stillness of the scene, and
admiring the soft alternations of light and shade
as they followed each other over the broken
ground on every side of me. So long as I was
proceeding through this first and prettiest part
of my night-walk, my mind remained passively
open to the impressions produced by the view;
and I thought but little on any subject — indeed,
so far as my own sensations were concerned, I
can hardly say that I thought at all.

But when I had left the Heath, and had
turned into the by-road, where there was less to
see, the ideas naturally engendered by the
approaching change in my habits and occupations,
gradually drew more and more of my attention
exclusively to themselves. By the time I had
arrived at the end of the road, I had become
completely absorbed in my own fanciful visions
of Limmeridge House, of Mr. Fairlie, and of
the two ladies whose practice in the art of
water-colour painting I was so soon to superintend.

I had now arrived at that particular point of
my walk where four roads met— the road to
Hampstead, along which I had returned; the
road to Finchley; the road to West End;
and the road back to London. I had
mechanically turned in this latter direction, and
was strolling along the lonely high-road— idly
wondering, I remember, what the Cumberland
young ladies would look like— when, in one
moment, every drop of blood in my body was
brought to a stop by the touch of a hand laid
lightly and suddenly on my shoulder from behind
me.

I turned on the instant, with my fingers
tightening round the handle of my stick.

There, in the middle of the broad, bright high-
road— there, as if it had that moment sprung
out of the earth or dropped from the heaven—
stood the figure of a solitary Woman, dressed
from head to foot in white garments; her face
bent in grave inquiry on mine, her hand pointing
to the dark cloud over London, as I faced
her.

I was far too seriously startled by the suddenness
with which this extraordinary apparition
stood before me, in the dead of night and in
that lonely place, to ask what she wanted. The
strange woman spoke first.

"Is that the road to London?" she said.

I looked attentively at her, as she put that
singular question to me. It was then nearly
one o'clock. All I could discern distinctly by
the moonlight, was a colourless, youthful face,
meagre and sharp to look at, about the cheeks
and chin; large, grave, wistfully-attentive eyes;
nervous, uncertain lips; and light hair of
a pale, brownish-yellow hue. There was
nothing wild, nothing immodest in her manner:
it was quiet and self-controlled, a little melancholy
and a little touched by suspicion; not
exactly the manner of a lady, and, at the same
time, not the manner of a woman in the
humblest rank of life. The voice, little as I
had yet heard of it, had something curiously
still and mechanical in its tones, and the utterance
was remarkably rapid. She held a small
bag in her hand: and her dress— bonnet, shawl,
and gown all of white— was, so far as I could
guess, certainly not composed of very delicate
or very expensive materials. Her figure was
slight, and rather above the average height—
her gait and actions free from the slightest
approach to extravagance. This was all that I
could observe of her, in the dim light and under
the perplexingly-strange circumstances of our
meeting. What sort of woman she was, and
how she came to be out alone in the high-road,
an hour after midnight, I altogether failed to
guess. The one thing of which I felt certain
was, that the grossest of mankind could not
have misconstrued her motive in speaking, even
at that suspiciously late hour and in that
suspiciously lonely place.

"Did you hear me?" she said, still quietly
and rapidly, and without the least fretfulness or
impatience. "I asked if that was the way to
London."

"Yes," I replied, "that is the way: it leads
to St. John's Wood and the Regent's Park.
You must excuse my not answering you before.
I was rather startled by your sudden appearance
in the road; and I am, even now, quite unable
to account for it."

"You don't suspect me of doing anything
wrong, do you? I have done nothing wrong.
I have met with an accident— I am very
unfortunate in being here alone so late. Why do
you suspect me of doing wrong?"

She spoke with unnecessary earnestness and
agitation, and shrank back from me several
paces. I did my best to reassure her.

"Pray don't suppose that I have any idea of
suspecting you," I said, "or any other wish
than to be of assistance to you, if I can. I
only wondered at your appearance in the road,
because it seemed to me to be empty the instant
before I saw you."

She turned, and pointed back to a place at
the junction of the road to London and the road
to Hampstead, where there was a gap in the
hedge.

"I heard you coming," she said, "and hid
there to see what sort of man you were, before
I risked speaking. I doubted and feared about
it till you passed; and then I was obliged to
steal after you, and touch you."

Steal after me, and touch me? Why not call
to me? Strange, to say the least of it.

"May I trust you?" she asked. "You don't
think the worse of me because I have met
with an accident?" She stopped in confusion;
shifted her bag from one hand to the other;
and sighed bitterly.

The loneliness and helplessness of the woman
touched me. The natural impulse to assist her
and to spare her, got the better of the judgment,